


The Cave

by thorsodinsn



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Family, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:49:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2156274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thorsodinsn/pseuds/thorsodinsn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Red. On the skin, on the tattered cloth, pooling beneath the trembling body. Ragged breath shakes supple blades of grass, bends them like a breeze might as the red drips to mask that vibrant green. Desperate hands grasp and clutch at the empty air, hazy vision betraying intent to feel, to connect. “M-Merle.” The voice is shaky. Tired. Laced with pain and with fear as far-away eyes seek out the man in question." || Merle's big-brother instincts kick in as he cares for an injured Daryl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cave

                _Red._ On the skin, on the tattered cloth, pooling beneath the trembling body. Ragged breath shakes supple blades of grass, bends them like a breeze might as the red drips to mask that vibrant green. Desperate hands grasp and clutch at the empty air, hazy vision betraying intent to feel, to connect. “M-Merle.” The voice is shaky. Tired. Laced with pain and with fear as far-away eyes seek out the man in question.

                “Easy,” Merle murmurs, and tense muscles uncoil at the sound of his voice. A sigh escapes chapped lips as the younger looks up, squinting against the harsh sun. “S’gonna sting,” the elder warns. He’s got a wad of fabric, dripping wet with river water, balled up in his hand. Carefully, with the very tip of his bladed prosthesis, he moves aside his brother’s torn-up shirt. The cool rag is pressed against an open gash. Daryl shudders; teeth clench as he hisses, head tilted back, hair mingling with the dirt beneath him. “C’mon, man. I warned ya,” Merle says. “Don’ be such a pussy.”

                “I ain’t,” Daryl breathes, and then pauses to fill heaving lungs with air. “Ain’t a—pussy.”

                “You ain’t?” Merle asks. He drags the cloth across his brother’s chest. The water runs pink down the younger’s filthy skin, cleaning away the blood and the sweat and the dirt. “Prove it t’me,” Merle taunts. He keeps up his work, dabbing and wiping at the angry, gaping wounds slashed over the hardened canvas of his brother’s skin. Daryl grinds and grits his teeth, eyes screwed shut, grunts of pain squeezing through the thin space between his molars. He growls rather than whines; never once does he whimper, nor will he whine. Something like pride turns up the corners of the elder’s mouth. “Tha’s more like it.”

                “Screw you, man,” Daryl gasps. The rag is moved away, blood-soaked and useless. Merle discards it.

                “Y’ain’t m’type,” Merle jokes. Behind him, the sun paints the sky watercolor pinks and purples and blues. It creeps towards the horizon, all orange and deep red, bright and flaring in its final moments. There’s no getting back to the prison now—the crickets have already begun their song, chirping away in the dense wilderness. And somewhere in there, walkers, hungry, without a need for nightly rest. Daryl watches, only semi-lucid, as his brother surveys the area. “Alrigh’,” Merle says. “Alrigh’, c’mon.”

                Strong arms slide beneath Daryl’s back, maneuvered carefully, and he grunts when he’s hauled to his feet. “Can ya walk?” Uncertain, he leans against his brother. His feet sink into the mud. A tentative step turns to a stumble; Merle catches him, slings Daryl’s arm over his broad shoulders and careful pins Daryl to his side. “C’mon,” he urges. They’re slow, and painfully so, as they cross the shallows of the river. Daryl’s on the hazy edge of consciousness. As he slips further and further into sleep he leans heavier and heavier on his brother. Merle bears his weight, guides him careful into a small, dark cave. Dank and damp, with a mushy, muddy floor; it smells like mildew and mold.

                Merle carefully lowers his brother to the ground. Daryl clutches onto his brother’s shirt, and even when he’s settled on the soft cave floor, he refuses to let go. “Dar,” Merle mutters. He tries to pull away, but the younger’s grip tightens. Daryl’s eyes are closed. “Hey,” Merle says, nudging his brother.

                “Don’ go,” Daryl murmurs in a sleepy voice. Merle’s features soften and smooth. His hand covers his brothers: a promise.

                “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Daryl nods. Fingers loosen their hold but don’t give it up. Merle lowers himself beside his brother. In the darkness, he inspects his brother’s wounds. As the younger sleeps, too exhausted to care, Merle quietly and carefully packs them with dirt. The pain doesn’t rouse his brother. A few times, just to be sure, his hand hovers over Daryl’s nose and mouth, heartbeat pounding a drumbeat in his veins until his brother’s hot breath tickles his skin.

                When he’s done all he can do, Merle props himself against the cave’s cold wall, eyes trained on his brother’s slumbering form—the chest, rising and falling, skin exposed and covered in dirt; the face, relaxed and childlike, age smoothed away in sleep, head turned towards Merle; one arm outstretched towards the elder, just in case.


End file.
